Murder most holy

bewhiskered face a few inches from his. Athelstan clutched his chest.
    ‘Sir John, why can’t you be like other men and just say good morning?’
    The coroner grinned and narrowed his eyes.
    ‘You look frightened — whey-faced. What’s the matter?’
    Athelstan told him as they led their horses on to the bridge, the friar as always keeping his eyes away from the sheer drop on either side. He had to pause whilst Cranston threw good-natured abuse at the city watch, but otherwise the coroner patiently heard him out. Sir John then stopped, rubbing his chin and staring blankly at the door of the chapel of St Thomas of Canterbury which stood in the centre of the bridge. Behind them a carter flicked his whip.
    ‘Come on, you great fat lump! Keep moving!’
    ‘Piss off!’ Cranston shouted back.
    Nevertheless, he guided his horse on, making Athelstan repeat once again his description of the attack.
    ‘And you found nothing in those damned books?’
    ‘Not a jot nor a tittle!’
    Cranston eased the knife in his belt. ‘But someone in that bloody monastery knows what you are hunting for!’
    ‘I agree, Sir John. I have concluded that myself. My belief is that all murderers are arrogant. Like their father Cain, they think they can hide from God and everyone else. Our demonstration, however, of what happened to poor Alcuin has provoked the assassin to act. After all, Sir John, if we can resolve one problem then perhaps it’s only a matter of time before we resolve another.’
    ‘Which brings us to the business of the scarlet chamber,’ Cranston added ominously.
    ‘Patience, Sir John, patience. And how are Lady Maude and the two poppets?’
    Cranston turned and spat as they left the bridge.
    ‘Those boys have prodigious appetites and powerful lungs. They must get it from their mother.’
    Athelstan pulled a face to hide a grin.
    ‘They are getting so big,’ Cranston moaned.
    ‘And the Lady Maude?’
    Cranston raised his eyebrows. ‘Like a lioness, Brother, like a lioness. She sits like one of those great cats in the King’s Tower, a smile on her face, eyes ever watchful.’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘If I do not extricate myself from this mess, she’ll spring.’ He glared furiously at his companion who was busy gnawing his lower lip.
    Lady Maude was so small, Athelstan thought, he couldn’t imagine her as some great cat stalking the mighty coroner.
    They entered the alleyways and mean streets of Southwark, Cranston still bemoaning his impending fate. Athelstan looped Philomel’s reins round his wrist, half-listening as he stared around. At first he had hated Southwark, but now he felt that despite the fetid runnels and shabby one-storeyed huts, the place had a vigorous life of its own. Already the little booths were open and in a nearby ale-house someone was singing a hymn to the Virgin Mary. A ward beadle tried to seize a young whore who had been plying her trade on the steps of the priory of St Mary Overy but the young girl raised her skirts, waggled a pair of dirty white buttocks and scampered off, screaming with laughter. They turned down the alley which led to St Erconwald’s. Athelstan heaved a sigh of relief that the church and grounds were empty. No sightseers. Even the serjeant Sir John had sent appeared to have found something more interesting to do and wandered off. They stabled their horses and went into the priest's house. Athelstan smiled.
    ‘My parishioners,’ he commented, ‘have apparently heard of my bad temper.’
    He gazed admiringly round the kitchen and buttery where everything had been cleaned, swept and polished, even the hearth which now had a pile of pine logs stacked waiting to be burned. A sealed jar of wine had been placed in the centre of the kitchen table and the water tub had been emptied, scrubbed and refilled. Cranston licked his lips when he sighted the wine. Athelstan waved him over.
    ‘Be my guest, Sir John. But I’d like more water than wine in mine.’
    Sir John bustled about in the buttery.
    ‘The buggers have done a good job here, too. Everything’s neat.’ He served Athelstan, then himself. ‘You are going to resolve the mystery of your skeleton?’
    ‘Of course, Sir John. You know that’s why I returned to Southwark.’
    Cranston pulled a face. ‘What will you do?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’ll just wait and see.’
    ‘It’s murder,’ Cranston announced.
    ‘No, Sir John, we only think it is.’
    The coroner’s hand fell to his wallet and he